(Shadowmarch #1) Shadowmarch (68 page)

“None taken.” But his heart was even heavier now. He had hoped at the very least that Chaven’s keen wit might strike on some new idea. “I’m sure you have a great deal to do, Mistress. I’ll leave you. When he comes back, could you tell him that Chert of Funderling Town wanted urgently to speak with him?”

“I will.” Now she seemed to wish there was more she could do. “The gods send you good luck—I hope you find your little lad. I’m sure you will.”

“Thank you. You’re very kind.”

 

In his weariness he almost slipped twice going up the wall. When he reached the top, he had to sit and gasp for some time until he had air enough to speak. “Halloo! It is Chert of Funderling Town!” He dared not shout too loud for fear of attracting attention below—it was the middle of the morning and even this less-traveled section of the castle near the graveyard was not entirely empty. “Her Majesty Queen Upsteeplebat very kindly came to meet me and my boy, Flint,” he called. “Do you remember me? Halloo!”

There was no reply, no stir of movement, although he called again and again. At last, so tired he was beginning to be concerned about the climb down, he rose to a crouch. Out of his pocket he took the small bundle wrapped in moleskin. He opened it and lifted the crystal up until it caught a flick of morning light and sparkled like a tiny star. “This is a present for the queen. It is an Edri’s Egg—very fine, the best I have. I am looking for the boy Flint and I would like your help. If you can hear me and will meet with me, I’ll be back here tomorrow at the same time.” He tried to think of some suitable closing salutation but could summon nothing. He made a nest of the moleskin and set the crystal in it.
What a beautiful, shining monster might hatch out of such a thing,
he thought absently, but couldn’t take even the smallest pleasure in the fancy.

He picked his way with aching caution back down the wall, so heavy with despair that he was almost surprised that he did not sink deep into the ground when his feet finally touched it.

It was only a day like many others, but as she awakened in the early hours to hear the bell in the Erivor Chapel tolling as the mantis and his acolytes began the morning’s worship, Briony was almost as gloomy and disturbed as if it were the day of an execution.

Rose and Moina and her maids came into the room, exaggeratedly quiet as though the princess regent were a bear that they feared waking, but still managing to make as much noise as a pentecount of soldiers in Market Square. She groaned and sat up, then allowed them to surround her and pull off her nightclothes.

“Will you wear the blue dress today?” Moina asked with only the smallest hint of pleading in her voice.

“The brown,” suggested Rose. “With the slashed sleeves. You look so splendid in that . . .”

“What I wore yesterday,” she said. “But clean. A tunic—the one with the gold braid. A riding skirt. Tights.”

The maids and the two ladies did their best not to look upset, but they were very poor mummers. Rose and Moina in particular seemed to feel that Briony’s boyish costumes were a personal affront, but on this morning the tender feelings of her ladies were of little interest to her. Briony was tired of dressing for other people, tired of the forced prettiness that she thought gave others the unspoken right to ignore what she said. Not that anyone dared completely ignore the princess regent, but she knew that when they were in private, the courtiers wished for Olin back, and not simply because he was the true king. She felt it in their glances: they did not trust her because she was a woman—worse, a mere girl. It made her almost mad with resentment.

Is there a one of them, male or female, who did not issue from a woman in the first place? The gods have given our sex charge of the greatest gift of all, the one most important to the survival of our kind, but because we cannot piddle high against a wall, we do not deserve any other responsibility?

“I don’t care if you’re angry with me,” she snapped at Rose, “but don’t pull my hair like that.”

Rose dropped the brush and took a step backward, real upset on her face. “But, my lady, I didn’t mean . . .”

“I know. Forgive me, Rosie. I’m in a foul mood this morning.”

While the women braided her hair, Briony took a little fruit and some sugared wine, which Chaven had told her was good for healthful digestion. When her ladies had succeeded in piling her tresses into a tight but intricate arrangement on top of her head, she let them pin the hat into place, although she was already anxious to be moving.

Underneath it all, threatening to pull her down like the sucking black undertow in Brenn’s Bay that sometimes formed beneath a deceptively placid surface, lay the horror of what Barrick had told her. She was frightened for her brother, of course, and she ached for him, too; he had taken to his rooms in the days since, making the excuse of a recurrence of his fever, but she felt certain that what was really going on was that he was ashamed to face her. As if she could love him any the less! Still, it was a shadow between them that made all their other differences seem small.

But even worse, in a way, was what he had told her about her father. Briony had never been the kind of foolish girl who thought her father could do no wrong—she had felt Olin’s sharp tongue enough times not to feel overly coddled, and he had always been a man of dark moods—but Barrick’s story was astounding, devastating. To think that all through her childhood her father had carried that burden, and had kept it secret . . . She didn’t know which was the stronger feeling, her pain at his suffering or her fury that he had hidden it from those who loved him best.

Whatever the case, it felt as though a hole had been torn through the walls of a familiar room to reveal not the equally familiar room presumed to be on the other side but a portal into some unimaginable place.

How could it be? How could all this be? Why did no one tell me? Why didn’t Father tell me? Is he like Barrick—does he think I’d hate him?

Briony had always been the practical child, at least compared to her twin—no brooding, no flickering changes of mood—but this went beyond anything she had experienced. In some ways it was worse than Kendrick’s death, because it turned upside down all that she had thought she knew.

She was in mourning again, not for the death of a person this time, but for her peace of mind.

 

I’m tired. I’m so tired.
It was only ten of the morning. She couldn’t help being angry at Barrick. Whatever dreadful thing he was suffering, he was letting all of the duties of ruling Southmarch fall onto her.

The throne room was jostlingly full of people with claims on her time, and some of those claims were inarguable. Just now the Lord Chancellor Gallibert Perkin and three gentlemen of his chambers were going into painful detail about the need either to find more money for the government of Southmarch or to use some of the ransom money collected for King Olin on expenses. The merchants were worried about the coming year, the bankers were being careful with their funds, and the crown had in any case already borrowed more than it should have, which made dipping into the ransom an attractive alternative. It was ultimately a problem without solution, although a solution would have to be found—to spend the ransom would be to betray not only her father but the people who had given, not always happily, to free him. But the household of Southmarch ate money like some gold-devouring ogre out of a folktale. Briony had never understood how much work there was in simply keeping an orderly house—especially when that house was the biggest in the north of Eion and the center of the lives of some fifty thousand souls—let alone an entire orderly country. The crown would have to come up with some other way of making money. As always, Lord Chancellor Perkin recommended levying more taxes on the people who had already given hugely toward ransoming her father.

The parade continued. Two Trigonate mantises spoke on behalf of Hierarch Sisel’s ecclesiastical court, which believed it had jurisdiction over the town court in a particular case. This, too, was about money, since the crime was a major one—a local landowner accused of the death of a tenant by negligence—and whichever court supplied the judge would keep any levies or fines. Briony had hoped that being the princess regent would mean she would get to solve problems, punish the guilty, reward the innocent. Instead she had discovered that what she mostly did was decide who else got to hear suits of law, the town magistrate, the hierarch’s justices, or—and this very occasionally, usually just in cases of nobility accused—the throne of Southmarch.

Midday came and went. The pageant of people and their problems dragged on and on like some official celebration of boredom and pettiness. Briony wished she could stop and have a rest but the line of supplicants seemed to stretch out to the ends of the earth and whatever remained undone today would need doing tomorrow, when she was supposed to have a lesson with Sister Utta. She had learned to be fierce in protecting her few moments of private time so, instead of resting, she called for some cold meat and bread and shifted back and forth in her seat to ease her aching fundament. It was strange but true that even two or three pillows could not make spending an entire day in a chair comfortable.

It was Lord Nynor the castellan who leaned in toward her now, wrapping his beard around his finger in a distracted way, waiting for her attention to return.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “What did you say? Something about Chaven?”

“He has sent me a rather odd letter,” the old man explained. Briony had been horrified and fascinated to learn that overseeing this wretched parade of demanders and complainers was the sort of thing Nynor had been doing every day of his long career, or at least through the several decades since he had become one of her grandfather Ustin’s chief courtiers. He didn’t look mad, but who would choose such a life? “The physician has had to leave on an unexpected journey,” Nynor said. “He suggests I summon Okros of Eastmarch to the castle in his absence, which he says may be a few days or perhaps even more.”

“He often goes to consult with other learned men,” said Briony. “Surely that is not so surprising.”

“But without telling us where to find him? And with the queen so close to giving birth? In any case, the letter itself struck me as strange.” Nynor’s eyes were red-rimmed and watery, so that even at the happiest of times he looked as though he had been crying, but he was sharp-witted, and his long years of service to the Eddon family had proved him worth listening to.

“He says nothing that is directly alarming? Then give it to me and I will examine it later.” She took the folded parchment from the castellan and slipped it into the hart-skin envelope in which she carried her seals and signet ring and other important odds and ends. “Is there anything else?”

“I need your permission to summon Brother Okros.”

“Given.”

“And the poet fellow . . . ?”

“Tinlight? Tin . . . ?”

“Tinwright. Is it true you wish him added to the household?”

“Yes, but not in any grand way. Give him an allowance of clothing, and of course he is to be fed . . .”

There was a murmur in the crowd as someone pushed his way forward, a drawing back as though an animal, harmless but of doubtful cleanliness, had been set loose in the room. Matty Tinwright burst out of the front row of courtiers and cast himself down on the stones at the foot of the dais. “Ah, fair princess, you remembered your promise! Your kindness is even greater than is spoken, and it is spoken of in the same proverbial way as the warmth of the sun or the wetness of rain.”

“Gah. Perin hammer us all dead,” rumbled Avin Brone, who had been lurking beside the throne all day like a trained bear, growling at those he deemed were wasting the monarchy’s time.

The poet
was
amusing, but just now Briony wasn’t in the mood. “Yes, well, go with Lord Nynor and he will see you served, Tinwright.”

“Do you not wish to hear my latest verse? Inspired this very day in this very room?”

She tried to tell him no, that she did not wish to hear it, but Tinwright was not the type to wait long enough for rejection—a trick he had needed to learn early, judging by his verse.

“ ‘Dressed all in mannish black she stands, like the thunderheads of Oktamene’s dour wrath in the summer sky. Yet beneath those sable billows there is virgin snow, white and pure, that will make the land in cool sweetness to lie . . .’ ”

She couldn’t help sympathizing with the lord constable’s groans, but she wished Brone might be a little more discreet—the young man was doing his best, and it had been her idea to encourage him: she didn’t want him humiliated. “Yes, very nice,” she said. “But at the moment I am in the middle of state business. Perhaps you could write it down for me and send it so that I can . . . appreciate its true worth without distraction.”

“My lady is too kind.” Smiling at the other courtiers, having established himself as one of their number—or at least believing so—Tinwright rose, made a leg, and melted into the crowd. There were a few titters.